


Death of a Bachelor

by OfficialMettaton



Series: We Are Victorious [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Hollywood circa the 50s/60s AU, M/M, Roadrat Fanzine 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 03:52:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17113964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfficialMettaton/pseuds/OfficialMettaton
Summary: The full moon is shining bright in the sky, but not as bright as the Hollywoodland sign just on the horizon. The only stars visible tonight aren’t the ones above, but the ones in the film posters and on displayed record labels, and Mako could point them all out - Dean, Monroe, Sinatra, Checker, Charles, Fitzgerald…Once upon a time, Rutledge was a Hollywood constellation that dazzled, just like them, but now, this old star is starting to dim.





	Death of a Bachelor

**Author's Note:**

> Hey howdy hey folks! Long time, no see, eh?
> 
> I had the absolute pleasure of participating in the 2018 Roadrat Charity Zine, along with a slew of other super talented writers and artists! Such an honor to have worked alongside everyone!
> 
> Didn't get a chance to snag a copy? No worries! I've got ya covered with this public publishing of the story I wrote for the zine!
> 
> What's more is that I'm hoping on extending this story out between multiple one shots, alongside other Roadrat short stories based upon other Panic at the Disco songs! Just...somethin' about Brendon Urie's sultry crooning voice that makes wanna write Roadrat LMAO
> 
> ANYWAYS enough of me chatterin' away! Hope you enjoy!

Mako catches sight of the stranger across the street from him through the thick, pungent cigar smoke he'd just exhaled as he leans against Club Quicksilver’s back alley wall.

Illuminated beneath one of the street lamps that buzzed in the cool California night air, as if standing under a stage light, the poor fellow is a real sorry sight; leaning upon a rickety, rusted crutch without a rubber foot on the bottom, half of his right arm and leg missing, wearing a plain cotton shirt that was once white in color, jeans with the right half cut sloppily just above where his leg ended, black loafers so worn that Mako swore he could see toes sticking out, and draped in an incredibly cheap leather jacket filled with holes and tears. His patchy blonde hair was coated in oil (most likely natural and not store bought) and slicked back as best as possible in an attempt to mirror the look of what people call “greasers” now-a-days.

One of Hollywood's many homeless vagrants, no doubt.

Mako’s fairly perplexed at this stranger's presence, on account of seeing a bum out and about on the more bustling side of the city was an incredibly rare happenstance. The only type of folks expected to be seen walking around such high class venues were folks that could wave a hundred dollar bill in the air without a worry - folks that drove up to the valets in their Skylarks, their Jaguars, their Imperials, all waxed and shined to absolute perfection, enough to reflect the brilliant glow of the theater marquees.

So, what the hell was this vagrant doing out around these parts, especially on a particularly busy Saturday night?

Mako inhales another deep intake of his La Carona, momentarily fighting back a cough that threatened to rattle his chest, before tossing it on to the ground of the back alley of the club, watching the ashes of the tip fizzle out.

He had better things to do than to sit around and wonder the goings on of some random hobo - the most important of which being him returning to his band.

He turns to walk back inside of the club, leaving the greaser across the road to stand beneath the street lamp without further recognition or acknowledgement.

\------------------

After a brief reintroduction by the club’s manager to welcome him back on to the stage, Mako strolls up to the glistening standing mic in the center to the sound of applause and cheers from the audience, made up of the absolute wealthiest group of people this side of California, all donned in their most expensive furs and suits, glasses of wine situated beside nearly every single person. He gives a wave to his band, and then a wave to the crowd, whose clapping slowly dies down.

He can’t help but notice that the crowd is smaller than last time, which was smaller than the time before...

Unlike most other crooners, who do a bit of talking to engage the congregation of folks, Mako immediately begins his next song with no introduction. Outside of his singing and his acting, he’s never been one for unnecessary chatter. Getting straight to the point gets things done faster, and God, does he really want this night to be over with as fast as possible, just so he can go back home, make himself a Pink Squirrel (or two...or three…), and sleep until noon the next day.

The song is a slow one, melancholy, bittersweet, about an impossible year. It really brings out the bass in his voice. Something he wrote while in one of his especially horrible depressive episodes, spurred by the ever encroaching loneliness. Course, he’d never tell that to anyone. To the press and the rest of the world, it’s a song he wrote after a “bad relationship”. “What relationship?” they’d ask. “Nothing that mattered,” he’d tell them, which garnered sympathies and pity, all of which was fake and manufactured, just like the rest of the business he used to feel so passionate about. The press would maintain that his bachelorhood is still intact, inviting women to continue their flirtatious advances.

Those same women now sit in the dim, candle lit room before him, giving him bedroom eyes, come hither looks, swooning and sighing in his general direction.

As he continues to croon into the microphone for the rest of the evening, staring out into the audience, Mako deeply wishes that, just once, he’d get the same looks of awe and admiration from the men.

—————

With three-hundred more dollars in his suit pocket than what he had walked in with earlier that night, Mako makes his way out into Club Quicksilver’s back alley once again to collect himself before he starts his walk back to his Buick parked just down the road.

The full moon is shining bright in the sky, but not as bright as the Hollywoodland sign just on the horizon. The only stars visible tonight aren’t the ones above, but the ones in the film posters and on displayed record labels, and Mako could point them all out - Dean, Monroe, Sinatra, Checker, Charles, Fitzgerald…

Once upon a time, Rutledge was a Hollywood constellation that dazzled, just like them, but now, this old star is starting to dim.

As he walks down the sidewalk, lighting up another Carona, letting the cigar smoke drift behind him, Mako solemnly recounts the event that happened a few days ago that made him realize that, perhaps, his time really is coming to an end...

It was on the set of his newest film, Sharpe and Dulley - a film that’s both a comedy and a mystery, which is a rather bold mix of genres the studio executives wanted to experiment with.

They originally signed Mako to play the lead role of Detective Victor Sharpe, a gruff, no-nonsense detective with plenty of experience under his belt - a role he could very comfortably portray. On the other hand, the execs had also signed Richard Hill, some twenty-something foppish up-and-coming pretty boy with ginger hair, to play as Detective Sharpe’s jocular greenhorn sidekick, John Dulley.

Since day one of shooting the movie, Richard has done everything he can to “correct” Mako’s acting skills, swaying the director and producers to believe that Mako’s performances have been “lackluster” and “borish”. Finally, after about three weeks of recording, Richard proclaimed that he could play the lead better than Mako could.

“Admit it, old man,” the younger co-star had sneered in private while they were on break between scenes. “Admit that you’re nothing but some old dog who just can’t do any more new tricks - Hollywood is just waiting to see you be put out of your misery! Even your songs can’t win as many folks over as they used to. You should just step aside and let the real talent take over.”

That’s when Mako cracked.

He grabbed the whelp by the lapels of his shirt, and growled through gritted teeth, “I have hundreds of awards that I have been collecting since I was four goddamn years old sitting at home that prove I deserve to be here. You, on the other hand, only got here because darling mother and father had the cash to pay someone to throw you in front of a camera to smile at in hopes that folks will only pay attention to your charming baby face and not see how much of a hack you really are.”

Richard’s look of pure shock showed that Mako had put the fear of God Almighty into him, but, of course, the little shit just couldn’t bear to be the losing party in the argument, and just had to get the last word in.

“You’ll regret saying that, Mako!” he had said with a trembling voice as he straightened up his shirt. “I have connections! I’ll make sure you’ll be put down like the old dog you are!”

Mako scoffed then, and he scoffs now as he finishes recalling the memory. The little idiot might have been right about him not having the fire for acting and singing like he used to, and that he probably should call it quits, but there was no way in hell Richard had any mob connections to actually put a hit on him.

As this thought crosses him, however, he suddenly can’t help but feel that he’s had someone following him since he’d left the club. Someone that he’d failed to notice while deep in thought.

Then he hears the sound of metal hitting concrete in a sort of rhythmic beat - a beat similar to that of his own footsteps.

CLINK-CLUNK

CLINK-CLUNK

Mako stops walking.

The metallic sound stops shortly after.

For a moment, Mako thinks to look over his shoulder to see just who it is that’s tailing him, but when he notices that he’s only just a few more paces away from the private parking lot, a plan formulates.

He’ll wait for the opportune moment.

Mako picks his walking back up, and, sure enough, so does the metallic sound.

CLINK-CLUNK

CLINK-CLUNK

The sound follows him as he turns into the parking lot. It follows him as he makes his way up to his car, parked all the way in the back corner. It even begins to pick up speed the closer he gets to his white and baby blue Buick Special.

CLINK-CLUNK CLINK-CLUNK CLINK-CLUNK

Mako takes one last drag of his cigar before tossing it on the ground.

SWINK

At the sound of a switchblade being unsheathed from a hair’s breadth away from him, Mako swings his trunk of an arm around, slamming it into his stalker, and he rams the bastard into the wall beside the car, raising his other arm and forming a fist in the air, ready to swing.

From the corner of his eye, Mako sees something fall to the ground.

A rusted, beat up crutch with the rubber foot missing from the bottom.

Looking at the person squirming against his arm, Mako realizes it’s the patchy blonde greaser bum from earlier, whose wild amber eyes are looking at him with absolute panic and limbs, both full and partial, are flailing frantically in a desperate attempt to break free of his grasp.

“WAIT WAIT WAIT WAIT!!!” the shockingly young vagrant cries out. “Y-you wouldn’t punch a cripple, now, wouldya?!”

...Strange...Was that an Australian accent Mako could hear in the man’s scraggly, cracking voice?

“I’ll punch anyone who tries to mug me,” the performer growls threateningly. The greaser lets out a strained chuckle, his cracked lips curling into a weary smile, revealing yellowed teeth.

“W-what would give you the idea that I was tryin’ t’ mug ya?” he asks.

“You have a switchblade in your hand.”

The greaser turns his head over to look at his good hand, which is still clutching a switchblade with the incredibly dull looking blade extended.

“...Oh...heh...would you look at that!”

Mako raises his fist back further.

“ALRIGHT!! Alright!! Ya got me!!” With that, the vagrant releases his clutch on the blade, letting it drop to the pavement below, and his grin disappears, replaced with worry. “F-fuck, Richard didn’t mention how big a bastard you’d be...”

Mako’s hold on the greaser falters for a flash of a second.

“...Richard?” he repeats. “...Richard Hill?”

The blonde opens his mouth to answer, then closes it as if to hold back on answering, until he finally lets out a defeated sigh, letting his body go slack, tired from trying to put up a losing fight.

“Real posh lookin’ ginger? Yeah, that’s the one. Passed me by the other day, gave me instructions on how t’ find ya. Said if I got rid of ya, he’d pay me. And, well...when you’re a bloke like me, can’t really say no t’ any offer of cash. ‘Course, ya can’t even begin to understand my predicament, can ya?”

The last sentence is filled with pure spite and vitriol, enough to make Mako wince.

“...Well, you did a piss poor job at trying to kill me,” the performer says. “I could hear you coming from a mile away. Even saw you during my break.”

A smirk slinks back on to the vagrant’s face.

“And might I say, absolutely lovely pipes you got, mate!”

“...You heard me from outside?”

“Well, sure! Had to keep my post so’s that I could keep an eye on ya!...And ears, too, I suppose. Didn’t know you were the one behind all me favorite songs til tonight!”

Mako snorts.

“You’re just saying that so that you can get out of trouble with m—”

Suddenly, the vagrant bursts into song, belting out one of Mako’s less popular tunes; some goofy upbeat swing about how being crazy is equal to being a genius. It’s a bit offkey, but that’s most probably due to the weight Mako’s still putting into pinning his arm against the younger man’s chest.

Mako places one of his hands over the greaser’s mouth to shush him. Last thing he needs is attention being drawn to this rather questionable scene.

“...What’s your name?” the performer asks, lifting his hand away in order to allow the blonde to answer.

“Junkrat,” the vagrant answers, smiling with pride in his voice, without missing a beat.

Mako rolls his eyes. “Your real name.”

“Oh! Ah, Jamie. Fawkes. Jamison Fawkes. Usually go by Junkrat, though!” There’s a pause, and the vagrant - Jamison - frowns. “You ain’t gonna haul me to the cops, are ya, mate?”

Mako contemplates. “I should...Then again, Richard would just do the job for me in the end.” When Jamison gives him a questionable look, Mako continues. “You really think he’d pay you after getting the job done? What makes you think he wouldn’t just report you to the police? Save himself the expense of paying you off? To him, you’re dispatchable. You could try to tell everyone the truth that Richard Hill ordered you to kill Mako Rutledge, but who’d believe a bum like you, especially with no cash to backup your story?”

Jamison looks away from Mako, an expression of hurt and sadness all over him. Damnit. Mako was actually pitying the poor man. He was just someone caught up in the bullshit fight between him and Richard, desperate and willing enough to kill a man for even the promise of cash, only to be played like a goddamn fiddle.

When the silence drags on too long, Mako breaks the silence.

“...How much did he promise you?”

Brilliant sunshine amber eyes look back to him.

“...Huh?”

“Richard. How much did the asshole promise to pay you if you off’d me?”

“Ah...uh…sixty bucks. It’d be enough to get groceries for at least two weeks, maybe even a new jacket.”

“Not enough to get you a new crutch, though.”

Jamison solemnly looks down at his battered, rusty crutch on the ground. “...No, not really.”

With that, Mako gently unpins Jamison, letting him touch ground again. He then slowly begins to reach into his coat pocket, retrieves his wallet, and pulls out the ten twenties he was paid earlier that night, extending it all out towards Jamison.

The blonde’s thick eyebrows rocket upwards, his amber eyes widening, and he begins to stutter, attempting to find words.

“Wh-wha...but...but I...you--”

“I’ll pay you another three-hundred,” Mako interrupts bluntly. “Only condition is that you show up to my rehearsal on set tomorrow afternoon, 3PM sharp. I promise no funny business on my end. This three-hundred is to show I’m not bullshitting you.”

Jamison’s one good hand, wrapped in a fingerless glove that’s colored a shade darker than his eyes, shakily reaches out and takes the cash from Mako, holding the bills up to the light of one of the parking lot lamps, as if to verify he they were the genuine thing. Mako swears he can see tears prickling on the sides of Jamison’s eyes.

“...Why?” the young man finally musters to ask, sounding breathless.

Mako merely shrugs nonchalantly as he stuffs his hands into his pants pockets. “Truthfully? I wanna put Richard in his place. Get the idiot to finally realize he can’t mess with me. Figured you might want a hand in it, too, what with him trying to play you for a fool. You show up tomorrow standing next to me, he’s sure to shit his britches. If anything, consider it compensation for your troub—”

The performer is interrupted by ecstatic, uncontained shrieks of laughter. The greaser throws himself forward, burying his face into his chest, and attempting to wrap his scraggly one-and-a-half arms around his rotund figure.

“Mate, you’ve literally changed me life tonight!” Jamison cries out, absolutely enthralled. He then takes his gloved hand, still clutching the cash, and uses it to give Mako’s cheeks a couple of good pats. “Oh, I could just kiss ya right here and now!”

That’d be nice. He’s kinda cute, despite the dirt.

The unchecked thought disappears from Mako’s thoughts as fast as it came. Instead, he gently pushes Jamison away, holding him up with one hand while he bends down and uses the other to grab the crutch, propping it underneath Jamison’s arm. He then takes his car key out from one of his pockets, walks to his Buick, and opens it up, reaching into the backseat to grab a sheet of paper and a pencil laying on the floor, then quickly scribbling down directions to get to the rehearsal.

“Hope you can read my chicken scratch,” Mako says with a hint of embarrassment as he hands the paper out for Jamison to take. The blonde greaser, realizing he still has the stack of twenties in his hands, shoves it into his leather jacket’s one good pocket before taking the paper with directions and giving it a quick glance.

“Hell, this is calligraphy compared to how I write!” Jamison cackles before he stuffs the paper messily into his pocket. “Thank you a hundreds times again, Mister Rutledge.”

“Just Mako is fine,” says the performer as he ushers himself into the fairly cramped driver’s seat of his car, closing the door once situated. He starts up the engine and rolls his window down to say his final farewells for the night. “Real pleasure to meet you, Jamison.”

“Likewise, Mako! Sorry again for the, uh, attempted murder.”

“Water under the bridge. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“3PM! Got it! Can’t wait! Sweet dreams, mate!”

“Same to you.”

Jamison stands aside to make way for the car to drive out from the parking spot, and Mako looks into his rearview mirror to see the blonde happily wave him off. He can’t help but think of just how much he’s looking forward to seeing the funny little bastard he just met again, and how tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough. The heat on his cheeks and ear tips is nearly unbearable.

\------------------------

Mako looks at his watch as he stands next to the designated meeting spot near the entrance of the studio.

Jamison was thirty minutes late.

He supposes he can’t blame him for just taking the $200 and running. There really wasn’t any need for Jamison to follow through with Mako’s scheme, seeing as it was created for sheer petty and selfish reasons. But on the other hand, he had really hoped he’d get to see the oddly attractive and interesting fellow at least one more time.

Just as he’s about to leave his post to head inside the studio, he hears the faint and familiar sound of a crutch striking pavement at a steady beat. There, hobbling his way towards him, was the blonde homeless greaser from the night before, looking extra cheery. When Mako sees that the crutch under his arm is no longer beat up and rusty, rather shining and new, he understands why there’s a smile from ear to ear plastered on his face.

“S-sorry I’m late, mate!” Jamison cries out as he attempts to pick up his pace. “Just got out from gettin’ me new crutch!”

“Glad you made it,” Mako says with his own grin. “No need to worry about security hounding on you. I made sure to talk to them.”

Jamison finally makes up to the performer, a bit out of breath. “Aw, cheers, Mako. Still dunno why you’re bein’ so kind t’ a rag like me, but I ain’t really complainin’.”

“Like I said, consider this all compensation for being thrown into this. Plus, ah…” Mako takes a moment to nervously rub at his nose. “...I kinda wanna just...get to know you a bit better.”

For a second, Mako thinks he’s said the wrong thing, because Jamison’s smile disappears instantly. Damnit. This is why he always keeps his stupid emotions in check...

...And then Jamison starts to giggle, a bloom of pink noticeably showing on his freckled cheeks.

“Shucks, mate...I think you’re pretty swell y’self, yeah?”

Mako’s ears begin to burn, and he feels like he’s young again. This was too good to be true. Quite literally a romance film brought to life.

“RUTLEDGE!!”

The performer and the greaser both turn towards the voice that had called out Mako’s name, seeing a baby-faced ginger with perfectly coiffed hair speed walking towards them looking quite upset. Mako’s girth must have somehow hidden Jamison, because it seems as if Richard has yet to notice him.

“Rutledge, rehearsals begin in five minutes, and you haven’t even made it to the makeup chair yet!” the ginger scolds. “How typical of you. Always so slow. What on earth is so important that you’re dawdling out here and not where you’re supposed to be?”

Mako turns to look behind him, seeing Jamison grinning knowingly like a Cheshire, and he can’t help but his lips twist into a smirk as well. They both give each other nods of acknowledgement.

Show time.

“So terribly sorry about that, Richard,” apologizes Mako, very obviously playing it up. “You see, I was just catching up with a new friend I made last night.”

With that, he takes one large step to the side, revealing Jamison, who’s standing at his full height instead of his hunched position, much taller than Mako had originally assumed.

The blonde greaser gives a heart wave and a, “G’day!”

For once in his career, Mako so badly wished the paparazzi were around to photograph and record the very look of the ginger’s ghostly pale visage of pure shock, because he could happily revisit this moment a hundred times over. Richard is so completely dumbfounded that he’s unable to utter anything, and yet his mouth moves in a very poor attempt to form words.

The greaser and the performer are both chewing this up.

“Jamison here was just telling me how he happens to know you,” Mako says as he folds his arms over his chest, staring down at the cowering man below him.

“That’s right, Dick,” continues Jamison, really putting emphasis on the rather hilarious nickname. “You’d told me about Mako a few nights ago, while you were passin’ by me usual sleepin’ spot. What’d you say he was? Oh! Right! ‘A filthy washed up swine of an actor who’d be better off dead,’ I believe were the words you used. Then right after, you promised me you’d pay me sixty dollars to off one of the most talented folks in Hollywood. Ringin’ any bells?”

Finally, Richard regains his ability to talk.

“St-stupid idiot! N-no one will b-believe that it happened!” the ginger stammers.

“So it did happen, then?” Mako pipes in, visibly seeing Richard squirm as he realizes his mistake. “You’re right - people won’t believe a man who lives on the streets. But they’ll certainly believe someone with hundreds of awards to his name and decades worth of connections in this city. Wouldn’t you agree...Dick?”

Mako swears Richard pisses his pants, but, unfortunately, it’s the trick of the light. Nonetheless, he can see the ginger’s legs literally shaking and wobbling.

“Y-you can’t! P-Please! M-my career w-would be r-ruined!” the younger actor whines pathetically.

As if reading one anothers minds, Mako and Jamison both turn their heads in sync to look at one another, sharing a quiet thoughtful moment between them.

“...Tell you what,” Mako says. “A hundred dollars--”

“Two-hundred,” pipes in Jamison.

“Two-hundred dollars, and we’ll take your dirty little secret to the grave.” Richard is about to agree, but Mako holds his hand out to shut him up. “AND...you stop running your maggot little mouth about telling me what to do on set. Then, once we wrap up filming, I don’t ever want to see your putrid, talentless face ever again. Are we absolutely clear?”

Richard nods his head so fast Mako’s afraid it’s going to snap off his neck, and his perfectly moisturized hands fumble to get cash out from his wallet, shakily handing it over to Mako. “C-Crystal clear, M-Mister Rutledge, s-sir! A-Anything for you, sir!”

Mako nods. “Great. Now, be a good boy, and tell the director I’m going to be unavailable today.” He lays his hand on one of Jamison’s shoulders, nearly knocking the poor greaser off balance. “I’m going to treat this fine fellow to a decent hot meal.”

“Y-yes, sir! Right away, sir!”

With that, the ginger turns and walks away. When he makes it inside the studio, Jamison and Mako both erupt into uncontained laughter, the two of them doubling over, tears in their eyes.

“Oh, that was absolutely brilliant!” Jamison wheezes, trying to steady himself on his new crutch.

“It couldn’t have played out any better,” says Mako, trying to regulate his breathing. “And, honestly? It’s thanks to you, for showing up. And for that…” Mako pulls his wallet out from his pocket, retrieving three-hundred dollars worth of cash and extending it out to Jamison, who graciously accepts it. The old performer then holds out the extra two-hundred. The blonde greaser shakes his head.

“Nah, nah. I can’t take all that,” Jamison says. “You’ve already treated me so good. How’s about this?” The greaser takes a hundred worth from Mako’s hand. “We split it fifty-fifty, yeah?”

Mako chuckles. “Alright.” He then begins to nervously rub a finger under his nose again. “I, uh...was serious about taking you out today. Maybe help get you some new clothes, get your groceries—”

He suddenly feels a wiry orange gloved hand gently place itself over his plump lips, and he stops talking, feeling heat rush all over his face when he sees brilliant amber eyes looking at him adoringly.

“And here I was thinkin’ I was the one who talked too much,” Jamison snickers. “Let’s start with dinner first, yeah? We can even split dessert, fifty-fifty.”

Mako smiles.

“Fifty-fifty. I can do that.”

There’s a pause, and Jamison shyly looks away, his smile faltering. “You...sure you’re ok being seen in public with me? I mean...folks are gonna talk…”

Mako gently takes Jamison’s hand into his, giving it a little squeeze.

“Let them talk.”

Now it’s Jamison’s turn to go beet red in the face, and his smile quickly returns.

“Aw, c’mon, no fair! Usin’ cheesy movie lines on me, you romantic, old sap!”

As Mako leads Jamison to his car, he can’t help but think that the past twenty-four hours were something straight out of a movie. He can already see the tabloids once the press catches wind of the two being together.

Mako Rutledge - The Death Of A Bachelor!

But maybe he was getting a little too excited and ahead of himself. For now, he needed to take things one step at a time, to get to know more about the little, scrawny punk from the streets with fire in his eyes and a penchant for mischief, who’s made his life far more interesting than it has been in the past twenty or so years.

All he knows is that, the way Jamison smiles at him, he’d happily take as many steps as they needed.


End file.
